Adda
by Sapphire-Raindrop
Summary: I never asked to be Terran. If I had a choice, I would have been born a Thagoran, like Zo – the man who raised me. I've spent my life trying to prove that I'm more than the race I was born to. It's been six months since Zo was killed and I was sold to slavers. Every moment on this ship has taught me that I have to be more. Because I live in a world where it's kill or be killed.
1. Chapter 1

So this is my first stab at Guardians of the Galaxy...it's been on my mind since I saw the movie and I've spent the past 2 weeks formulating ideas and coming up with this storyline.

The T rating is for some pretty nasty language, in this chapter especially...you have been warned! =)

I hope you guys like it, and if you want more...

_**PLEASE REVIEW! **_

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**.: Adda :.**_  
__a Guardians of the Galaxy_ fanfic  
by Sapphire-Raindrop

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**"My love is alive way down in my heart  
Although we are miles apart  
If you ever need a helping hand  
I'll be there on the double just as fast as I can**

**Don't you know that there ain't no mountain high enough  
Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough  
To keep me from getting to you, babe…"**

~_Ain't No Mountain High Enough_, by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell

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I watch without much surprise as a young Adiri male is stabbed through the chest, his slanted black eyes widening and equally black lips opening to release a gurgling scream. I saw the attack coming a mile away – the Adiri is painfully untrained and unaccustomed to combat. Every now and then they need to make a certain slave look good, to appeal to buyers. In this case, I can understand why they'd want to make the other fighter look good. Kiluu is one of the more deadly slaves in the fighting pool, and rumor has it that a prolific assassin guild is hoping to buy her. Not one to waste an opportunity, Reeve – the Centaurian fighting ring owner – gave her an easy kill, to prove her lack of mercy. Assassins can't feel pity for their prey, and the Adiri boy was the epitome of pitiful.

Kiluu's face is impassive, red eyes glancing down at her weapon, which is coated in the Adiri boy's green blood. Probably wondering how long it will take her to clean the blade. Would I be thinking that, if I were in her position?

I celebrated my fourteenth year a month before the strange men came to Zo's and my ship – a SkyWing, and my home – and yet I haven't been picked to fight in the rings yet. I think it's because of how small I am; they must think I'm younger than my true age. I don't bother enlightening them, because I like being under the radar. It makes escape much more of a possibility.

I sigh, and reach for my mop and bucket of cleaning fluid. It's the last fight of the day, and I've learned over the past six months that if I don't start cleaning right away after a fight, Reeve will beat the laziness out of me, as he puts it. If I weren't a slave in danger of being killed at any moment, I would shove the mop so far up his blue ass that he would taste his own shit on the handle.

The crowd of prospective buyers gathered around the ring is cheering more obnoxiously now, excited by the blood I assume. I have grown so used to the sight that I can only stare into the ring and wish for the Adiri's death to come more quickly. The faster he dies, the faster I can get in there and finish cleaning.

I hear the crowd murmuring to themselves, and if I try, I can hear snatches of Basic along with the other alien languages. Basic is the universal trade language, and as such is the most commonly spoken language in the galaxy. Zo and his wife – she died of sickness when I was six years old – taught me their native language as well as Basic. Well, _they_ didn't teach me Basic, exactly.

I attended school on Xandar, which is where I learned to speak, read, and write Basic. But Zo and his wife couldn't have taught me Basic even if they wanted to. The Thagoran language is primarily silent hand gestures, accentuated with short vocalizations, clicks and whistles. The whistles are vaguely similar to the Centaurian language, but much lower in pitch. The reason for the limited vocal communication is that Thagorans have extremely underdeveloped vocal chords. They physically can't speak in the way that most species can. They understand Basic just fine, but speaking it is another story.

A Nova Corp officer told me that Thagoran is considered one of the most difficult languages to learn, both because of the complexity as well as the fact that Thagorans consider their language to be very sacred. When they need to communicate with trading companies, they enlist the assistance of those who permanently reside on Thagor – usually spouses of native Thagorans. Zo told me that his species didn't like their language used simply to get something from someone else, and as such were very reluctant to teach outsiders that weren't bound to Thagor in some way.

_"Speaking to someone acknowledges their existence,"_ Zo said to me once, his calloused purple hands moving swiftly to create the signs. _"Acknowledgement is an affirmation of their importance, it shows that you are embracing who they are, that you are giving them an amount of your time that you can never get back. That kind of exchange shouldn't be taken lightly." _

I'm fluent in both Thagoran and Basic, but I personally prefer Thagoran. Until six months ago, I spoke it most often – seeing as it was just Zo and me most of the time. We left Xandar after my seventh birthday – he never told me this, but I guess that the move was because of his wife's death – and we traveled the galaxy in SkyWing, making and selling weapons as well as outrunning bounty hunters. That was my life until the time of my capture and Zo's…death.

Thinking of Zo is a mistake, and I push away the sudden tightness of my throat and focus on the sight of Kiluu roughly shoving the Adiri boy off of her sword and letting his body crumple to the ground. The floor of the fighting ring is roughened glass; smooth while still proving plenty of traction.

"He was nice," a soft, feminine voice says to my right, and I know without turning that it is Falar, the only person I trust in this horrible place. When the fifteen-year-old Krylorian arrived on the ship a few days after I did, I was confused as to why she was placed in a fighting pool – female Krylorians are usually sold as personal assistant or pleasure slaves. But when she looks you straight in the eye, it's clear why she was diverted from that path.

A thick, terrible scar mars her otherwise beautiful face. The scar – the pale color of it stands out against the normal red-pink of her skin – starts in the center of her forehead and curves around her temple and jaw, ending below her bottom lip. I glance at her, and see her expression sagging with sadness. I look away, irritated. Who is she to pity a weak fighter? It's the way of things; only the strong survive. That was one of the many lessons Zo had drilled into me, starting from the time I could understand such things.

Falar seems to sense my discontent, for she takes a step forward so that she's standing directly next to me.

"His name was Reyd, and he–"

"Falar, I don't care who he was. He's dead. End of story. C'mon, we have to get cleaning," I interrupt, seeing Reeve gesture for his cleaning crew to enter.

The crowd is dispersing, heading toward the main hall, where the bidding will take place. Falar and I are on the off rotation, meaning that we're only displayed in the main hall once a week rather than every other day, as is normal for a young slave. I've been on the off-rotation for my entire time here on the slave ship. Reeve's to blame for that. Maybe it's my unremarkable pale skin and equally pale hair, but he doesn't see me as something desirable. I'm not like Kiluu, whose distinctive blue skin and ruthless fighting style is something that many will be clambering to obtain.

I've managed to hide my knowledge of weapons and ability to fight, and even though it kills me to play the meek, weak little girl…it keeps me off the market. Better to be seen as the pathetic little Terran than have them know what I'm capable of. I have the upper hand; the slavers just don't know it yet.

Falar's been on the off-rotation as well, but we both knew why that is. I for one am glad that she's never been on the main rotation – she deserves more than a life of being groped and tossed around like meat. I don't know when I'm going to escape, but I know that when I do, Falar is coming with me. I'll drop her off on the nearest planet, help her get situated, and then I'll go and find the bastards who killed Zo.

That plan is what's been keeping me going for the past six months. All I need is a ship and access to the codes that open and close the exit ports. I've been scouting for the past few months, and I think that I could fly one of Reeve's scout cruisers fairly well – they're small, and insanely fast. The codes are all I need. I've told Falar and no one else, and for all of her kindness I know that she won't dare share our plan with anyone else. We've both seen our fair share of escape plans getting revealed to Reeve by slaves who hope to get a good deal by putting others under the bus. I don't trust anyone besides Falar to not run straight to Reeve and tell him what I have planned.

I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get the codes, but I'll come up with something. I could always sneak into Reeve's office and torture him until he gave them to me. And then I'd kill him, because I hate that worm far too much to spare his life.

The worm in question is walking over to Falar and I, his red eyes peering out from his broad, fleshy face. He's disgusting, with rolls of fat barely contained by his clothing. His personality is even more repulsive, greedy and abrasive. I focus on cleaning the blood off the floor, letting the harsh smell of chemicals fill my senses and distract me from the burning loathing I feel for this man.

"Hard at work, my beautiful girls?" he asks, and cackles as if he's just made a good joke. I can see Falar's lips pursing together in hurt – she's always been very insecure about her looks – and I move slightly closer to her, offering her silent support. I don't approve of Falar's sensitivity and inability to ignore the suffering of others, but I care for her despite the flaws. She's the only person in this place who treats me with kindness, the only person who makes me feel like I _matter_.

"Yes, sir," I say, so sweetly I'm surprised I don't choke on the words. Reeve's eyes narrow. I can see the suspicion crossing his face, and keep my face carefully neutral.

"I expect this floor to be as white as your flimsy Terran hide when you're through," Reeve says coolly, his red eyes boring into mine. I nod, ignoring the pang of anger that always comes when Reeve calls attention to my Terran roots. I hate my fragile Terran skin just as much as he does, but of course I'll never tell him that.

"Yes sir, of course. Only the best for you," I reply, and Falar shoots me a warning look. I'm being too bold, I know this, and I berate myself for rising to Reeve's bait. I know better than to give him any power over me.

Reeve's face darkens, and his gun is in my face in a flash. I have to bite my tongue to stop my hand from going to my staff – she's strapped to my forearm, hidden under my loose gray shirt-sleeves. If only I could take her out, and touch the cool metal. The rush of mental connection would be like coming home, and the sight of Reeve impaled by her blade would be equally pleasing. But I can't, and that makes me more frustrated than anything.

The gun is cool on my cheek, and I felt nothing but contempt. He's nothing but a fat man who hides behind his guns. Not even skilled enough to use a blade, that would require too much effort.

"Listen here, you little piece of shit. I _own_ you, d'ya understand that? If I wanted, I could bend you over and fuck your little ass and you couldn't do a _damn thing_ to stop me. I could make your ugly friend here service every single one of my guards with her mouth. I could _kill you_ and no one would say a word against me. Is that what you want?"

"No," is my response, and it takes everything in me to not reach for my staff. If he so much as touches either of us I'll cut his head off, and screw the consequences.

"That's what I thought. Better watch that mouth of yours, Terran. It'll get you into trouble one of these days," Reeve murmurs, pressing his gun more into my cheek. He threatens me often, but this is the first time he's brought Falar into it, and my control slips as a result.

I glare at him, letting all my hate pour through. Let him feel how much I despise him. Let him feel the promise of his death at my hands.

Reeve's eyes are thoughtful as he pulls his gun away, slowly, as if he has all day to release me. I stay where I am, not even tempted to take a step back. Falar is silent and afraid behind us, clinging to her mop as if it's a lifeline.

"Finish this, and get to your cell."

With that, Reeve leaves, slipping his gun back into its holster. He disappears into the darkness of the nearest hallway, and I let out a harsh breath through my nose.

"That was foolish of you," Falar whispered, and I nodded. She was right. I didn't feel too guilty though; it felt good to finally fight back a bit. I mean, what is Reeve going to _do_? Tell his fellow associates that he was intimidated by a weak Terran slave? Yeah, _that'll_ be the day.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, and Falar puts her hand on my shoulder, squeezing for a moment before returning to her mopping. I turn to look at her, and her beauty is so palpable that it hurts. Maybe I'm just used to looking at scars – Zo has quite a few, and none of them hidden by his clothing – but Falar's face is nothing but beautiful to me. Smooth red-pink skin, delicate features, and large golden eyes that remind me so much of Zo's – my Thagoran guardian's eyes were a slightly darker gold than Falar's, but similar all the same. I've never met a more genuinely kind and caring person in all of my years of traveling the galaxy, and those traits shine through every pore of her skin.

Maybe I'll gouge Reeve's eyes out, because he was obviously blind if he refers to Falar as anything but stunning.

Such strong attachment to a fellow slave is dangerous, I know this. I don't know when Falar became so important to me, but it happened, and I can't exactly get rid of the feelings now.

Falar and I finish cleaning, and by that time the lights were dimming, signaling that it was close to lights out. We have about ten minutes before our cell door closes and locks. The slaves are divided into cells; two per cell. It had just so happened that Falar and I were put in the same cell six months ago. One stroke of good luck in a sea of bad luck.

We just finish climbing the stairs when I hear a low voice echoing down the hall, just past where our cell is. I frown, ignoring Falar's gentle tug on my arm. I recognize that voice. It sounds familiar, and as it grow louder I realize that it's one of the guards that work in the control tower. We see him go past us every morning to go to the control tower!

I move down the hall before I can help myself, and Falar lets out a desperate sound before following me, her golden eyes fearful. I stay close to the wall, and when we reach our cell I push Falar inside. She shakes her head, and stays next to me.

I nod once, giving her a look before sinking into a crouch, moving forward. Our cell is right next to the stairs that lead to the control tower, and I keep our cell in sight as I creep around a corner. If there's a chance we could get those exit port code, I'm taking the risk.

The guard is taking into a radio, I can hear it.

"…come in, Gerak, come in?"

"What is it, asshole?"

"Ha ha, very funny…do you want the code or not?"

"Oh, yeah, go ahead."

"This can't leave this conversation, otherwise my job is up in flames. We're not supposed to give lower-grade guards the code…"

"I promise, my lips are sealed."

"Okay, the code is 345092. It's only good through tomorrow night, so better use it soon."

Falar and I stare at each other, eyes wide, and I know that she's repeating the code in her head just like I am. 345092. 345902.

There comes a huge groan; it's the sound that signals the doors of the cells to close. The two of us scramble backwards, the machinery screeching and hiding the sounds of our footfalls. I push Falar into the cell before me, barely managing to slip in before the metal slides down and seals us in. There's a dim yellowish light that comes from a single bulb in the ceiling, and in a few minutes it'll go out. I'm breathing hard, more from excitement than from exertion. Falar is staring at me, her eyes wide and full of hope.

We have the code. We have the _code_!

"Tomorrow, after we clean up the last fight. We'll hide in the hanger until the doors close, and then we'll go." I declare, so softly she has to bend forward to hear me. There are no cameras or recording devices in the slave cells – that would cost Reeve too much, and to say the man was frugal would be an understatement.

Falar nods, her lips turning up in a delighted smile. Silently, we both ready ourselves for sleep, and climb into our respective bunks. The beds are simple, and not particularly comfortable, but after so long I'm pretty much used to it. I'm not going to get much sleep tonight, anyway. Not with the code and the thrill of escaping running though my mind at top speed.

The light bulb timer runs out, and the cell is thrown into complete blackness. I lay on my back, my hands behind my head as a pillow. I stare into the inky darkness, and it hits me that in less than twenty-four hours, I'll be staring at stars instead of this bleak cell ceiling.

"Goodnight, Adda," Falar whispers, and I smile to myself.

"Goodnight, Falar."

I listen to her breathing become deeper and deeper until I know that she's sleeping. I close my eyes, and if I try I can almost see the night sky, beautiful and full of colors and future adventures. It'll be like SkyWing, except…

Zo won't be there.

"I hope I'm making you proud," I impulsively sign into the darkness, not opening my eyes, but not needing to see them to know what I was saying in the Thagoran language. It's the first time I've spoken in Thagoran since that terrible day six months ago, and to do so fills me with a bittersweet feeling.

I let my hands stay raised, wanting to say more but feeling foolish. I swallow roughly. Zo is _dead_, there's no point in communicating with someone who will never hear my words or see my signs. I place my hands on my chest, letting out a slow breath and focusing on the code for tomorrow. I know there's no way I could ever forget it, even if I was to wait a week before escaping. But I didn't want to take chances.

_345092…345092…345092…_

Tomorrow can't come fast enough.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Here's the next installment. Not gonna sugar-coat it...I hated writing this chapter. I hated it because I knew i had to write it this way, but it still managed to break my heart. I dunno, maybe I'm just an over-attached author, but meh. _

_If you like it, feel free to alert/favorite! But just as a note, while alerting/favoriting is all well and good, what really gets me writing/gives me good feedback is REVIEWS. So if you want to make an author very, very happy/inspired..._

_**PLEASE REVIEW! **_

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My eyes open seconds before the morning bell goes off, and immediately entire body is alight with excitement. Today's the day Falar and I get out of this shithole. Soon, I'll be one step closer to finding the men who killed Zo.

I swing my legs over the side of my cot, and see Falar do the same. She's mussed from sleep, but her expression is as energized as I feel. She jumps up and starts getting ready for the day. I watch her, braiding my two small braids – one on either side of my face, leaving the rest of my hair to fall to my shoulder blades. Thagorans have no hair on their bodies except for eyebrows and eyelashes, and so one of Zo's favorite things to do was to brush my hair. He gave me my two braids when I was young, and I liked them so much that I continued to braid my hair that way, even as I grew older.

I get dressed, and hold my staff to my chest for a moment, letting her energy soothe my nerves.

My staff is my most precious possession. Zo made her for my ninth birthday, and I knew from the moment I held her that she was no ordinary weapon. Zo taught me how to wield her, first bonding her with my physical and mental signature – allowing me to control her without having to press pesky buttons or move my hand in a certain way. I refer to the staff as "her" and "she" because I've ceased to think of her as a mere tool. She responds to my thoughts, she anticipates my movements and she defends me. She's made of an alien metal that can morph and change seamlessly, a material that is extremely uncommon and very difficult to obtain. And if that wasn't enough, she also has two small but deadly retractable blades, one on each end. It took me a long time to learn how to fight with her, but after five years, she's practically an extension of myself.

When I was with Zo, I carried her with me everywhere, a simple metal staff. I measured one time, and her fully extended length is five feet nine inches. But at any time, I could shrink her down to the size of my index finger and any size in-between. That's how I snuck her into the slavery ship. Upon entering, they strip slaves and burn all their clothing except for shoes – Reeve is too cheap to provide his slaves with shoes, and so those who come with shoes get to keep them once they've been checked for weapons and the like. But I kept my staff in my mouth, and they didn't think to check there – I don't look like the creative type, I suppose.

Falar and I don't speak of tonight, but all morning we sneak glances at each other and smile, because we're almost free. Just a few short hours, and we'll be gone forever.

The morning fights commence, and Falar and I clean up as usual. The midday meal is the same gross slop as usual, and somewhere in the mix of hungry slaves I lose sight of Falar. But that's normal – Falar befriends other slaves, unlike me, and sometimes she likes to spend meals with those she sees less often. I'm grateful for the opportunity to be alone; it gives me time to think of the details of our escape.

The scout cruiser I plan on hijacking is the one closest to the exit ports. I know from my experiences traveling through space that all ships have code entry pads on the inside, so that authorized ships don't have to radio in to the control tower every time they want to leave the docking bay. If there are ships without entry pads, I've never seen one, and I've seen a _lot _of ships. I don't want to think of what I'll do if there is no entry pad. I'm desperate enough to where I would seriously consider breaking into the control tower and killing the guards in there. We'd be gone before their bodies were found. But I'd rather not have it come to that. Too many things could go wrong in that scenario.

I can't find Falar on my way to the afternoon fights, but I'm not worried. Falar's never been late before, so I continue my way to the fighting ring, mop and bucket in tow. The crowd's already gathered, though the fighters aren't in the ring quite yet. I see a variety of species, all equally eager to watch slaves kill each other. I detest slavers, but the people who buy slaves are even worse. There's no honor in_ buying_ a lifetime of loyalty. It's a debasing trade for people who are unworthy of loyalty to begin with.

Reeve steps up to the podium, his fat torso covered by a tunic of colorful Rangor leather – the Rangor is a critically endangered herbivore found on the planet Etheria. I remember seeing a rehabilitated Rangor when Zo and I visited Etheria. It was a gentle, docile creature. I fed it some grain out of my hand, and I remember how soft its muzzle was. Seeing the leather on_ Reeve_ of all people made me sick to my stomach.

"Honored guests, welcome to this afternoon's fighting pool! We encourage you to purchase refreshments from the stands by the entrance, and hope you find much success in your bidding tomorrow evening! Now…" Reeve trails off, and his red eyes search the crowd until they find me.

"Let the first match begin!"

The slave doors open, and two Krylorians – one female, one male – are shoved into the ring, both carrying simple swords and wearing sparsely padded armor. Reeve is still looking at me. The smile on his face sends ice sliding down my spine. I look back to the ring, only to have all the joy I had been feeling just minutes ago disappear.

"_No_!" I yell, lunging forward to press against the bars. The crowd is cheering, but all I hear is the sound of my panicked breathing, the shift of sand as the combatants ready themselves. Because everything in my world has just narrowed down to the sight of my only friend, my Falar, standing straight and hefting the sword in her hand. Reeve is laughing now, watching me with unconcealed amusement, and I realize that this is his doing.

Falar was being punished because of my insubordination. She was dear to me, Reeve knew this, and now I had to watch as she fought for her life.

"Falar!" I yell, and somehow she hears me over the roar of the prospective buyers. She looks at me, keeping an eye on the other Krylorian, who is stretching and preparing. Her golden gaze is scared, so scared, but there's resolve there as well. She smiles a determined smile; it takes all the strength out of my limbs. I sag against the bars, and my eyes never once leave her face.

I feel my staff humming against my skin, feeling my turmoil and reacting to it. I can sense her desire to come out, to feel Reeve's blood on her retractable blades, but I can't give in to the urge. I can't help Falar, I can't protect her, and for the first time I realize how helpless I am in this place. I have the power and the skill to kill Reeve and a large number of his guards, but I can't, because until last night I had no way out. I can't protect Falar, even though I thought I could, as Reeve has so cruelly proved by putting her in the fighting ring. I can't even climb the bars and fight for her – the bars are ten feet tall all around.

It's like Zo all over again. I remember seeing him kneeling on the floor, the leader hovering like a scavenger bird. Two of his men were dragging me out by then, their strength too much for me to overcome, especially with no warning and no weapons at my disposal. I was pulled out of view before they could bring the blade down over Zo's neck, and I suppose that was a mercy. Losing him was enough without having to see it firsthand.

I'll receive no such mercy with Falar. Reeve will make me watch every second of Falar's fight, will ensure that I am present the moment the life leaves her body. And what's worse? I could have _prevented_ this.

If I had just looked down and been meek last night, as was expected of slaves, I wouldn't have provoked Reeve to do this. Falar would be standing next to me right now. We'd be escaping in a few short hours.

I grip the bars with my fingers, so tightly I can feel the bite of the rusty metal on my palms. Falar turns away from me, and the moment she does I want her to turn back. She swings her sword, testing its weight, more sure of herself than I was expecting her to be. The other Krylorian is watching her carefully, aware of the confident movement just as I was. He is tall, muscular, and his pink skin's slightly darker than Falar's. His jewel-green eyes are filled with apathy. This is just business, his gaze seems to say. Can I fault him for feeling this way?

I want to. I desperately want to.

Falar stands ready, her eyes focused and just barely expressing her fear. She's strong, and with that realization I begin to feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps she'll get out of this alive. Maybe Reeve won't win, after all. Could an event with such an unhappy beginning have any chance of ending with joy and freedom?

I straighten, gripping the bars and watching as Falar's opponent loses his patience. He lunges forward, making the first strike, and Falar jumps out of the way, her shiny brown hair swinging in its ponytail. She swipes, but misses. The male rolls to the side, swinging up with his blade and missing Falar by inches. Falar's gasp is a whisper amidst the cheering and catcalling of the crowd, but I hear it. I feel Reeve's eyes on me, still, but I refuse to meet his gaze and give him any satisfaction. Falar is going to survive. She and I will leave here together.

Falar stabs. The male groans when her blade raises a shallow cut on his side. Falar dances back before he can retaliate, and the two continue to exchange blows. Falar is inexperienced, but her speed and her ability to adapt give her an edge. The male has more technical skill, but he's bulky and slow, which are hindrances in any fight.

The male makes a fatal mistake, misjudging the momentum in his sidestep and stumbling to the ground. Falar leaps forward and holds her sword high to finish him off. But then she does something that makes me want to scream.

She _hesitates_. I can see the indecision in her face, the desire to preserve life rather than take it away. I pray for her to kill him, I pray for her to realize that it's kill or be killed–

But it's too late. I want to close my eyes, but something keeps them open, watching as the male Krylorian's sword pierces Falar's chest. A dangerous calm settles over me, like it's all a dream and I'll wake up any second. The sound of the sword piercing her is a dull _shunck_, and Falar looks down at it in shock. Her mouth opens to release a horrible scream–

_**BOOM!**_

There's a huge resounding explosion from the entrance to the fighting area, drowning out Falar's cry of pain, and suddenly _everyone_ is yelling and screaming. The crowd panics, and the relatively orderly organization becomes a herd of stampeding animals in less than ten seconds. I find myself pushed toward the ring entrance, and I move towards it, still filled with that cold numbness. I see the male Krylorian running away, and part of me wants to go after him. But I continue to where Falar is lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling of the ring with still bright eyes. I stand over her, and our eyes meet.

"I'm sorry, Adda…I couldn't–" she begins, but then coughs, dark crimson blood coating her lips. I drop to my knees beside her, unable to respond. I reach out and grip her shoulder, squeezing gently, and she crumples. A few tears leak out of her eyes. I take a few deep breaths.

"You'll be fine, we'll get out of here and get you fixed up," I babble, looking for something to press against Falar's wound to staunch the bleeding. I can feel the finality of these last moments, but I refuse to give them power. I can save her, still. I can give us that happy ending.

"Adda," is Falar's simple reprimand, and I turn to look at her, and her watery golden eyes are deep and sad. Without thinking, I reach out to cup her cheek, feeling the thick familiar texture of her scar and the warmth of her skin. She's still here; she's still my Falar.

"You have to see the stars, remember?" I say softly. Falar had spoken so often of how stars were her favorite things to look at, because it reminded her of times spent on her home planet, with her family. I want her to see those stars again, to see the sparkling multitude of them, the limitless beauty found in their depths. I want her to stare up at them and see _infinity_, just like I do.

I can feel Falar fading, her eyes dimming and her body relaxing, but she moves her hand up to touch my hair. Her fingers slip through the straight strands, bringing them forward so I can see the pale silvery-blonde color An expression of contentment crosses her face. For a fleeting moment I wish I was in her position, so that I could see what it was about my hair that gives her such joy, such _peace_.

"Just like starlight," she whispers, and smiles one last smile for me. I can do nothing but watch, unable to keep up with the emotions that rush through me upon hearing her last words.

I feel it when she dies. I'm still holding her cheek, and there's distinct feeling of deadness that washes through me. She's gone. Her breathing stops, the warmth is still there but fading fast. Her golden eyes glaze over, her hand falls down to land on her stomach. I stare at her dead body, only barely registering that I'm sliding my fingers over her face so that her eyelids close.

I don't cry.

I didn't cry for Zo, either. I don't know what it is, but the tears feel locked out of my reach, hidden behind a wall of sorts. I keep my hand on her face for a moment or two longer, and then stand. My staff slides into my hand without hesitation. I let her grow to her full size.

I can only think of one thing: Find Reeve.

I see the bastard passing by the bars, his eyes wide and confused. Off to the side, I see a flash of green, but I ignore it, too focused on my prey. I begin to run, and I don't slow even when Reeve turns and sees me coming. Let him know.

He tries to pull out his gun, but I whip my staff down on his wrist, satisfaction coursing through me at the sound of cracking bone. He screams pitifully, and I yank on his collar, shoving him so that he's against the bars. I let one of the staff's blades slide out. I hope he can see his death reflected on the surface of the metal, because I certainly can.

"H-How did you get that?" Reeve sputters, eyes never leaving the knife in his face.

I don't respond, not wanting to waste my words. He pales, and tries to beg, tries to say that he'll set me free, that he'll give me whatever I want.

But I don't let him finish.

I let my staff blade slowly – very slowly – pierce his chest. I watch his expression shift from desperation to agony. He screams and tries to struggle, but I lash out and kick his leg, displacing his kneecap. He shrieks, and it's like music. I let every ounce of rage fill me, and when the blade is all the way through his torso I call it back to me, harshly, causing even more tearing.

I want to say so much to him. I want to spit at him and scream all the hate I feel inside of my chest.

But Zo's words come back to me, and despite my urge to disobey his teachings the instinct to make him proud is stronger than any amount of impulsive desire. I turn and leave him there to bleed out. The ripping I did to his inner organs will kill him in minutes. His last image of the Terran slave will be me walking away from him, bladed staff in hand. I take solace in the knowledge that he will die alone with his precious empire crumbling around him like wet paper.

I don't go back for Falar. I don't look back at where I know her body lies, because I don't trust myself. I can't let the grief in, not now. Not now.

I have to get out.

Chaos reigns supreme on the slaver ship. People are running everywhere, fighting and screaming. Things are collapsing, though thankfully the ship walls are secure. For the briefest moment, all I want to do is cut down everyone I see. I want to feel the rush of adrenaline. I want to relish the power that courses through me every time I wield a weapon. Six months of nothing has left me rusty, and I can't afford to be killed simply because I'm out of practice. I have to resume my training as soon as my escape was complete. But right now, all I want is to kill. Does that make me a monster? Perhaps it does, but I have never been one to shy away from the darkness.

Falar is gone, why bother trying to fight for goodness and kindness? She was moral and just, sweet and merciful, everything I'm not. And yet _I'm _the one standing here, still breathing.

"Hey, ya lump, stop trying to kill everyone and just knock 'em out!" an unfamiliar, raspy voice calls out above the pandemonium, and I turn to try to find the source. But all I can see is a furry little creature…who's holding two very large guns and grinning like a hellion. A huge man with olive-green skin and raised red tattoos is scowling beside the creature, his deep voice plaintive.

"I am simply making sure they never get up again. How is this disagreeable to our cause?"

"Becauase we want Nova to take care of 'em! Freeing slaves and handing over the slave traders – that's our 'good' thing. The 'bad' is that we're keeping all the credits involved," the furry alien replies smugly. I stare at them both, unable to comprehend who – or _what_, in the small creature's case – they are.

My staff hums in my hand, warning me, and I turn to see that a slender green woman is watching me – she's Zehoberi, my mind offers. She's taller than I am by a decent amount.

"Your weapon, where did you get it?" she asks, her voice low and melodious. I do not answer, intent on moving past her and getting to a scouter ship. I don't have time to play around with…whoever these people are. I look past her and see a tall muscular man fending off some of the more skilled guards, and his mask is unremarkable save for the two glowing red eyes that it sports. I look back to the Zehoberi woman, and without giving her any warning I sprint in the opposite direction, toward the docking bay. I just have to get to the scouter ship, and then I'm free.

"Wait!" the woman calls to me, but I'm not stupid enough to hesitate. I hear her footfalls behind me, and I curse loudly. I don't know what she sees in my weapon, but if she thinks she's getting her filthy green fingers on it then she'd better get ready to lose a few limbs in the process.

I leap over a fallen guard, and duck around a metal shape that I recognize to be a storage unit. I find myself in a maze of storage containers, all stacked so that they create rows and rows, a maze of sorts. I glance behind me, and see the green woman hot on my trail. I look around at the crazed slave traders as well as the three "saviors" before running into the maze.

"Stop, please!" the woman shouts, her voice echoing in the rows of stacked metal. I ignore the words, and take as many turns as I can, trying to lose her. I can see the very top of the docking bay, and I make my way toward it, sending a command to my staff so that her blades retract and she shortens to about two feet long.

Out of nowhere, the woman drops in front of me, and I realize that I've sorely underestimated her. I can see the sheer amount of strength in her stance, the understanding in her gaze. She's a killer, a tracker, a fighter, and a diplomat all wrapped into one.

I don't let her see my uncertainty, and by the time I ready my stance my staff is at full size again. Her blades slide out with a smooth, seductive _shink_ sound. The woman isn't attacking, however. Her eyes are cautious, but there's recognition in them. I frown. Why in the name of all the galaxies would this strange Zehoberi woman recognize _me_?

"I know who you are, little one. The sigil on your staff is added proof, but now that I look at you up close I _know_ that I am not mistaken. You are the little girl I met six years ago on the ship of Zo the Master of Weapons. I remember him well," she says, pausing to slide two small blades out of their sheaths, holding them up so I can see them.

They're Zo's, that's for sure. I'd know the fine crafting of the blade anywhere. The curve of the handle, the expert design. More importantly, the distinct symbol marks the blade; Zo's personal trademark. It's a unique symbol in the sense that it's more feminine than most would choose. Most weapon makers would prefer harsher, more powerful symbols, to go along with the idea that weapons are a means to an end, symbols of power and authority over others.

Zo's mark was a circle, with a starburst pattern within, detailed and delicate. I've grown up with the symbol, and looking at it always calms me. It reminds me of a burst of light, of inspiration, of beauty and grace. A constant reminder that weapons are an extension of one's self, not merely tools to kill and maim with.

I stare at her, careful to keep my face calm so that she does not see how intently I'm considering her words.

The Zehoberi was acquainted with Zo? It would appear so, if the possession of his knives was anything to go by. But then again, she could have killed the one who bought them and filched them off his or her corpse.

She met me at some point? I don't remember this, but if her judgement of time is correct, I would have been only eight years old at the time. _That _part of her story, at least, has a _possibility_ of holding truth. That is if I am even open to believing her at all.

The woman seems genuine, but I know better than to base my conclusion merely on her outward appearance of sincerity. I need answers.

I lift my chin in reluctant acknowledgement, and lower my staff a fraction. Enough for her to see, anyway.

"I'm listening."


	3. Chapter 3

Long time no see! My computer's dying, so I'm going to keep this short.

I hope you guys are still interested in this story! I'm trying to keep my energy up for fanfiction, but right now I'm going through a pretty rough time writing-wise. Hopefully it's temporary, but until I know for sure...stick with me!

If you want the next chapter ASAP, or have any questions/concerns...

_**PLEASE REVIEW!**_

* * *

The Zehoberi woman sees my slight relaxation, and straightens in response; her own gesture of neutrality. Neither of us is comfortable, and I keep my senses open and aware even as I focus on the woman in front of me. Her teammates are nowhere to be seen – I assume them to be the masked man (his species is a mystery thanks to that mask and the leather covering him from head to toe), the tattooed alien and the strange furry creature.

"What is your name, little one?" the woman asks gently, but something in me hardens at the title she gives me for the second time. I am _not_ a child!

I clench my teeth together, and don't respond. To her credit, she seems to understand that she has offended me, and ducks her head slightly.

"I am Gamora," she says, a peace offering of sorts, and the name is familiar even if _she_ is not.

Anyone with a pair of brain cells to rub together knows who Gamora is. Tales of her ruthlessness are all across the sector, and yet Zo never once mentioned that he knew her. Then again, seeing as she's the daughter of Thanos and serving under a maniac Kree zealot…I don't blame Zo for keeping it hidden. When it came to that sort of thing, people tended to shoot first and ask questions later.

I also know that Gamora is one of the most dangerous assassins in the galaxy. That realization sends adrenaline pumping through me, and I ease back into my fighting stance even though there's no way I can_ possibly_ win. She's had at least a decade more experience than me; she's been cyber-enhanced to be stronger, faster, and more durable.

Me? I'm just a fragile Terran – it hurts to admit, but in this situation I have to face facts – with a fancy staff and a comparatively small amount of training.

Gamora works for that Kree, the one Zo said had his eyes too focused on power to look around and see the damage his actions were causing. How can I trust an assassin who willingly serves that kind of man?

I ready myself to run again, and Gamora raises her hands imploringly.

"Please, hear me out. I don't serve the Kree anymore, or Thanos. I don't serve _anyone_. I've spent most of my life trying to free myself from their poison, and now I've finally done it. I'm…I'm a guardian, along with my team. We're the galaxy's protectors," she says, the word 'guardian' said with no small amount of uncertainty. Clearly the title is new for her.

I frown, wondering how she expects me to believe her story. For all I know, she could still be working for the Kree, using her group of strange companions as a cover. I can't take that risk. Not when escape is so close that I can practically see the stars. I have to see the stars again. I _have_ to.

I turn; ready to start sprinting again. But suddenly a wall of olive-green blocks my vision and a large hand closes around my neck. I'm mid-swing when there's a sharp nerve pinch that radiates throughout my entire body.

The shock of the attack makes me freeze, and by that time it's too late. A feeling of nausea sweeps over me, covering my consciousness in a heavy blanket of darkness.

Gamora lets out a hiss as Drax gently lowers the Terran to the ground, careful not to bump the girl's head. He has never heard her make that sound before, and gives her a wary look. The green whore is angry?

"You _fool_! How is she ever supposed to trust us, now?" she demands, crouching beside the girl in question. She reaches out to feel for her pulse, letting out a breath when she finds it.

"I saw her preparing to run, and you did not look finished speaking with her…and so I assisted you. You are not pleased? I did not kill her, I merely incapacitated her, like Rocket said," is Drax's simple answer, and Gamora wants to repeatedly hit her head on the nearest metal box.

It's their first mission together as Guardians and yet Gamora already wants to scream in frustration. Peter is the glue that holds them together, and it becomes clear the moment he leaves the picture that the rest of them have a lot of work to do before they can perfect the unity that Peter seems to inspire without even trying.

Drax is perplexed by her behavior, but has resigned himself to the fact that all females – no matter their species – are equally confusing. To question them more than necessary only leads to arguments and more confusion. He stares at Gamora for a moment longer, then searches for the other two members of their team.

Rocket walks towards Drax and Gamora, gingerly hopping over the limp bodies of the slavers. Quill's organizing the surviving slaves and explaining the situation: they've contacted Nova Corp, their servitude is over, and they'll be given sanctuary on Xandar until plans can be arranged for their integration into normal lives. Rocket had managed to get the location of the head hancho's stash of credits, and has the chip with a hefty 50,000 on it safely stowed in his pocket. They're dirty credits, but hey, they're still credits. He hears the muted sounds of Gamora and Drax talking, and wonders who they're yammering about. A slave? Why is that suddenly something to gripe about?

"Oi, Greenies, what's the deal? Quill has the slaves over…there…" Rocket begins, but trails off when he sees the unconscious slave girl. She's nothing to write home about, excepr for her hair. The silver-gold color is her only redeeming quality. Then again, anything less than a nice coat of fur is unappealing in Rocket's humble opinion. Perhaps he's a bit biased. His nose twitches, and her scent rushes in.

He's only smelled one other Terran, and that's Quill. Terrans are common as slaves, but Rocket's never found much reason to seek them out. He realizes that if he had been exposed to more of them, he would have been able to tell that Quill wasn't 100% Terran in a second. Quill's soft, earthy Terran smell – something that can't be masked by any amount of alien clothing or perfume, at least not to Rocket's unusually keen nose – is tinged with something older, something sharp and powerful. This girl, on the other hand, is all Terran.

Terrans are widely known as one of the weakest species in the galaxy, what with their fragile skin and comparatively feeble bone structure. Another thing that should have tipped Rocket to Quill's less than Terran genetics was his ability to take a beating and survive. He mentally kicks himself for not picking up on it earlier. So much for having "enhanced intelligence"…

"Care to explain?" Rocket asks, and Gamora raises her eyes to the heavens as if to beg for patience.

"This girl is the ward of Zo, Master of Weapons. I met her many years ago, while commissioning some blades from him."

"_The_ Master of Weapons! Hell, even _I've _heard of that guy…he made the original design for this baby," Rocket exclaims, patting the Triksa 3000 hanging over his shoulder.

He had tinkered with it and given it a personal touch, but it's one of the only weapons Rocket had to struggle to find fault with. He's seen weapons made by Zo before, and for all of his snipe and sarcasm, Rocket can't deny that that man's an artist when it comes to weaponry. And Gamora expects him to believe that Zo, the powerful Thagoran who is known for his unmatchable skill as well as for his never having spoken a word to anyone who wasn't Thagoran, raised a _Terran_ girl as his heir? There was no goddamn way!

Peter Quill looks over at the others, and frowns. He keeps in mind that they've only been an official team for a few weeks, this being their first-ever mission. Gamora's shoulders are stiffening, her mouth tight. Drax is perplexed by her anger – no surprises there. Rocket is quiet, and Peter doesn't take that as a good sign.

He finishes giving the instructions to the slaves, who're looking at him like he's some sort of god. Peter smiles at them, trying to hide how uncomfortable their worshipful stares make him.

Being a Ravager meant sticking to the shadows, keeping quiet to keep the element of surprise. Peter's never been good at being stealthy, but it's an aspect of life that Hondu instilled into him constantly growing up. As long as one stays hidden from sight, they stay in control of the situation to a large extent.

Peter clicks open his communicator, and sees that the Nova Corps sent him their coordinates. They're about half an hour away, maybe a bit less. Peter wants to be gone before they get here, just to avoid explaining the "slavers' missing credits" situation. A little bit of good, a little bit of bad…a healthy balance is always good, right?

The slaves seem to be on board in terms of staying put and making sure the slavers don't regain consciousness before Nova Corp gets to the ship. A few of them heft clubs, ready to clobber any slavers into a pulp. Peter turns to his team, curious as to why they're all gathered in a circle. What's got them so riled up?

Hearing his familiar footsteps, Gamora turns to face Peter, grateful for his presence. He's an idiot at times, but no one can deny that the man knows how to settle arguments.

Peter's gaze finds the unconscious girl. His eyes widen impossibly wide.

"Dude, you knocked out a slave? Not cool, man!" he snaps at Drax, who frowns.

"How did you know that_ I_ was the one–"

"That's not important right now," Gamora interjects. "What's important is that we take her with us. Peter, this is the ward of Zo, the Master of Weapons. We need to keep her safe. I respect Zo too much to leave her to Nova Corp when we could return her to his custody."

"Who the heck is_ Zo_?"

Rocket's teeth flash at Peter's ignorant reply, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Gamora silences him with a look.

Drax shrugs. "A very good weapons maker, the green whore says."

Gamora glares at him, but chooses to not comment on the remark. She instead turns to Peter, seeing the expression of support in his face, and instantly she feels much calmer.

"Zo is one of the most skilled weapons master this galaxy has ever seen. He made two of my blades, many years ago, which is where I met this girl. I don't know how they were separated, but we have to get her back to him."

Peter's shoulders hunched as he thought. "…What if there's a reason she ran away from him?" he suggests hesitantly.

Gamora is going to refute it, Peter sees it in her gaze, but after a moment she goes silent. She looks down at the girl, her face troubled. Peter feels similarly, it makes him a little queasy to imagine anyone hurting a kid so much that they run away and find themselves enslaved.

The only way they'll know the whole story is if they take the girl with them.

Everyone's looking to Peter, the leader, and he feels the same uncomfortable feeling as before. _I have to stop hiding in the shadows,_ he says firmly to himself, and looks at the girl once more before making a decision.

"Let's bring her along. We'll hear her side of the story before deciding what to do next."

Drax nods shortly, and with one smooth motion picks the girl up, one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. Her head lolls back onto his arm, and in Drax's huge grasp the girl seems even more breakable than before. In the back of his mind, Peter wonders what species the girl is. She's the ward of a master weapons maker, and so Peter guesses that she's either Xandarian or Reinglari – a humanoid species with a standard outward humanoid appearance. What separates the Reinglari from the rest is their sharp black teeth, two stomachs, and the ability to jump ten feet in the air with little effort.

Rocket peers at the ground where the girl lay moments before, and sees a silver rod about a foot long. On the side is Zo's sigil, proudly displayed. He frowns, and leans over to pick it up. The moment the pads of his paws make contact he yells and drops it, because a great jolt of painful energy zings through his skin. Gamora's expression is shocked.

"It's a symbiotic weapon!" she gasps, leaning down and using the sleeve of her jacket to pick the weapon up. She examines it closely, while the others look on incredulously.

"Symbiotic weapon?" Peter repeats, confused, and Gamora nods.

"They're extremely difficult to make, because of the rarity of the material as well as the complexity of linking of the user and the weapon. It takes about a year to fully meld the two together, and often times the focus of the user isn't strong enough to forge the mental bond. The maker uses a variety of energies to allow it to absorb some of the user's emotions and inclinations, and if done correctly…it's the closest thing to a living weapon you can get. It responds only to the one it's linked to, otherwise it goes on defense mode, which Rocket just experienced."

Rocket flares. "That's a stupid-ass idea! Who wants a weapon that only works for one person? What if someone else needs to use it, what if it's life or death? Weapons aren't meant to talk _back_, they're meant to be used and that's it!"

Gamora smiles at Rocket's outburst, and carefully tucks the weapon into her pocket without making direct contact with it. The group sets off toward the Milano. She can feel the weight of it, as well as the hum of discontented energy. It can feel its owner close by, and yet is unable to reach her.

"That's what makes his weapons so special. Most see weapons as mere tools, but Zo sees them as extensions of oneself."

Rocket snorts as they all board the Milano, settling into his seat to help Peter get everything ready to go.

"For a professional killer you're awfully sappy," he grumbles, and Peter laughs loudly, a sound that's somehow heard over the roar of the ship's engines.

The Milano slowly lifts from the port, and Rocket inputs the exit code a second later. Gamora snaps in her seatbelt, while Drax sits on the cot with the girl, making sure she doesn't get too jostled by the jump to speed.

The doors open, and in a flash of orange, the ship soars into open space and disappears.

* * *

I'm unconscious for what feels like seconds. One moment I'm closing my eyes, the next I'm awake, my heart hammering in my chest. I'm on a ship – after living most of my life in space I can feel the slight, constant rumble of the engine. I keep my eyes closed, for fear of whoever kidnapped me being aware of my awareness.

The sounds of the ship are unfamiliar, giving me no indication of who could have taken me. I don't hear the bustling of officials, so I assume I'm not on a Nova Corp vessel.

It smells…clean, but decidedly masculine. I can't really put my finger on how I know this.

I need to find out where I am, first and foremost. The occupants of the ship can come second. I can hear someone close by, rustling and shifting his or her weight. From the heaviness of the sounds, I'm guessing that it's a man. But I can't know for sure.

I'm sure Zo would have been able to tell what species and how big the man was by smell and sound alone, but my weak human senses will never be that keen.

I open my eyelids a fraction, peering at the stranger through my eyelashes. I see a red-leather clad figure hunched over, facing away from me. The figure turns, and I see the tall man from before, only the red-eyed mask is absent. His face is…Terran?

I am so shocked by this discovery that I forget all of my teachings, and sit up abruptly.

"You're Terran?" I exclaim, and the man looks up at me, surprised. His eyes are gray-green in color. It's been so long since I've seen a human this close before. There were Terran slaves on the slaver ship, but I avoided them as much as possible.

What strikes me most about this man is the confidence he exudes. Terran slaves are cowardly, sniveling things, not much better than pets. I'm amazed, because this human is anything but submissive. There's this raw sort of power to him, a swagger that shows even when he's not in motion.

Maybe Terrans aren't _normally_ pathetic things. Maybe their home planet is different. Could it be they're all like this powerful stranger? Could I be more than just a weak human?

No, it can't be. If all were like this man, humans wouldn't be exploited as much as they are. No, he can't be human. I must be mistaken, there's no way he's human.

The man grins at me, so widely I can see his teeth. "Basically. I mean, I thought I was until a few weeks ago. Turns out I'm only half Terran. The other half…well, I'm not sure what it is. I don't feel like anything but a Terran, so I'd say you're right," he said. His voice is deep, yet filled with a sort of boyish energy. I frown, and he turns to face me. I see my staff in his hands, and my anger rushes forth. How dare he touch her!

I lunge at him, and he isn't expecting it. He_ lets_ me hit him; I can see the lack of wariness in his gaze. Underestimating me is his first mistake. Zo's words come rushing back – "_Use momentum to your advantage, turn their power against them…" _– and I obey automatically. As we fall, I hook my ankle around his knee and pull up, making him fall painfully on his shoulder rather than his back. He yelps in pain, dropping my staff in the process of trying to right himself. I grab her and roll over him.

Letting me grab hold of my weapon is his second mistake.

I let my staff slide out as I stand, the hiss of power filling the space of the cabin. It's a large space, but cluttered with personal belongings. I glance around. There are personal touches here and there. Weapons, books, holopads, masculine products. I'm willing to bet my left arm that this ship belongs to the man in front of me. Who is he…and why am I on his ship?

Gamora! I hiss under my breath, my teeth clashing together angrily. It must have been her…she must be trying to sell me back to Zo for a ransom. Or she's trying to return me to him for some moral reason, which would be a bit of a challenge for her.

I swallow hard, keeping my body in attack-mode. I can't afford to let my guard down. But how am I going to escape? This ship is too small to have escape pods or even a small speeder ship. Realistically, I'm stuck here until they dock. How long until then? Weeks? Months?

I hear heavy footfalls, and whip my staff around to face the newcomers. Gamora and the green-skinned mountain of a man appear in the doorway to the rest of the ship, and Gamora's eyes immediately go to the half-Terran. I see the tenderness in her gaze. To the untrained eye, it would be seen as a fleeting concern, but years of reading Zo had prepared me well. Part of me wants to berate her for showing such obvious emotion.

The half-Terran is her weakness. If I wanted to hurt her, I could just hurt the Terran. I glance at him. My staff seamlessly reads my intentions, and in less than a second her blade slides farther out, brushing against his throat.

"Woah, woah, woah! Let's all just calm down, okay?" the man yells, eyes wide. Gamora lets out a sound that is a mix between a hiss and a snarl, and I ignore the instinct to back down.

It wasn't until I left Xandar with Zo that I was introduced to the idea of a personal claim. All species had a gesture that symbolized their claim on a mate (or prospective mate), some more obvious than others. Zo had ingrained into me a deep respect for the claim.

_"Use knowledge of a claim only as a last resort. To come between mates is dangerous. Such a bond brings out the most dangerous fighter: an unpredictable one." _

I think Zo would see this as a last resort. I need freedom; I need a way off this ship. I'm not seriously considering hurting the man in front of me, not really – I value my life too much to waste the rest of it being hunted by a master Zehoberi assassin. But I was the only one who can know this. Extreme measures gave me the upper hand.

"If you move toward any of your weapons, _my_ weapon will go through his neck," I say calmly, and the man under my knife lets out a shaky sigh. The furry creature – I hadn't seen him before, since he was so small – and the green-skinned man didn't move a muscle, their weapons loose in their grips. Gamora doesn't move, but her eyes are blazing. I have to tread very carefully here.

"Can we all just take a step back and talk about this?" the half-Terran asks mildly, and I press the blade tighter to his skin. Gamora sucks in a sharp breath.

"I want off of this ship. Give me that, I won't kill him," I say, getting straight to the point. The furry creature bares his fangs, and I am again struck with the burning curiosity to know what kind of alien he is. I've never seen his kind before, and I've been to almost every corner of the galaxy.

"Quill, how'd you get yourself into this? She's a kid! A Terran kid no less!" the creature snaps, his raspy voice surprisingly deep for his small stature. The green-skinned man says nothing, and I glance at him for a split second. He is unreadable, and it was him I watch with the most caution.

The half-Terran – Quill, was that his name? – let out a weak chuckle. "How was I supposed to know she'd pull a fast one on me?"

"I _told _you to keep your guard up, Peter! She was raised and trained by the most skilled weapons master in the galaxy, what did you expect her to be like?" Gamora asks angrily.

Quill – I'm very confused now, is his name Peter, or is it Quill? – groans.

"Maybe wait to yell at me until I'm _not_ being held hostage by a knife-happy teenager?" he asks, and I scowl. I need to regain control of this situation.

The furry creature cocks his head at me. "We just want some answers, kid. Give 'em to us, and you'll be free to go. If not…I have some new electrocution cuffs I've been dying to test out."

"Over his dead body," I whisper, and Quill closes his eyes, scrunching them in preparation for the final blow. Gamora raises her hands imploringly, almost frantically.

"We're not here to hurt you! Please, let Peter go, and I swear on Zo's name that no harm will come to you. We just want to talk."

I look around, seeing the stoic expressions on their faces. It's three against one, and I'm on the losing end. I feel the hopelessness of the situation pressing down on me. There is no way out.

I let out a heavy breath, and shove Quill away from me, backing up to the wall. Quill laughs, rubbing his skin with a large hand. His skin rubbing against his facial hair makes a rasping sound. Gamora moves to Quill's side, her eyes scanning his face and her hands clenched tightly to keep from reaching out to him.

"I believe it is tradition to offer names to those you wish to remain nonviolent with," the large green-skinned man says, the first thing I've heard him say, and his voice is a rumbling baritone.

"I am Drax," he says.

"Rocket's the name," the furry creature declares, and he grins fiercly, his sharp teeth glinting in the artificial light.

"I'm Peter Quill, also known as Star-Lord," Quill says proudly, and I realize that Quill is his surname. It suits him more than Peter or that other name, so I don't bother remembering the other names.

"What is your name?" Gamora asks, not having to introduce herself. I grit my teeth, trying hard to resist the urge to raise my staff and attack. Names are important things, and I hate giving these strangers any sort of power over me.

But I have no choice. I have to compromise, in order to get my freedom.

I swallow hard.

"My name is Adda."

Gamora frowns. "Why were you on that slaver ship, Adda? Zo didn't sell you, did he?"

I want to strike her so badly in that moment. Suggesting that Zo would sell me like some common slave is beyond insulting. I tightened my hold on my staff, gaining some sort of comfort from her familiar energy.

"No."

"Did you run away?" Quill asks, his eyes searching my face with unveiled concern.

"Of course not."

"Dammit, kid, just tell us why you were on that damn ship! Would it kill you to get to the point?" Rocket exclaims, and Gamora sends him a disapproving look. I, for one, find his bluntness more welcome than any amount of sugarcoated suggestions.

I look into Rocket's liquid dark eyes, and find myself wavering. I fight back the emotion, not allowing the sadness to escape. I can't be weak. I can't show how much I'm hurting. Vulnerability is weakness; _showing_ it is a death sentence.

I lift my chin. It's an effort, but I force my voice to remain emotionless, even if my chest aches with the weight of the next three words.

"Zo is dead."


End file.
